


Cake

by flyingisland



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, Shizaya - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7004440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only cake. It comes in a box with instructions written clearly on the back. How hard could it really be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SHSLDespairQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHSLDespairQueen/gifts), [SHSL_KomahinaFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHSL_KomahinaFan/gifts).
  * Translation into Français available: [[TRADUCTION] Le Gâteau](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406700) by [DracoSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoSH/pseuds/DracoSH)



The windows are open to let the smoke out. It’s a chilly morning, early spring, and the faint vibrations of the cars speeding by down below shake against the glass. Shizuo looks out over the city through his kitchen window, holds his breath, counts to ten. He counts backward again for good measure, runs a hand through his hair.

Izaya is humming from the stove, despite the burning mess of black crust that he’s scraping from the pan into the sink. Shizuo considers sending him the bill for new cooking equipment. He considers shooing him out and forgetting that any of this has even happened.

It’s Valentine’s Day. They should be out doing… _something_. Not cooped up in Shizuo’s cramped apartment, burning anything that touches the stove and bickering endlessly about why Izaya felt the need to do this now of all times without any warning at all.

This morning, when the sun was barely beginning to skim the tops of the buildings outside, Shizuo was awoken by the sound of someone tapping in quick successions against his front door. This went on for about fifteen minutes before he’d dragged himself out of bed, scowling at the clock and lurching toward source of the noise, intent on murdering whichever poor soul was waiting for him in the hall.

Of course, however, it was Izaya. He wasn’t really sure who else he would have expected to find on his doorstep at 5AM with a grocery bag and a grin so insufferable that he’d initially shut the door in his face. Thirteen more knocks and he’d let the little headache inside, but not without giving him an earful.

Izaya had listened to his rant, allowed him to vent his frustrations, before replying, simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I need help baking something.”

He still has no idea what they’re baking or why. They’ve went through three boxes of powdered cake mix and three of his good pans. Izaya is reading the instructions on the back of the box, squinting stubbornly only because he knows how much Shizuo likes seeing him in his reading glasses. He’s stirring a bubbling pot of _something_ on the stove, and if they’re making cake, Shizuo really has no clue what that could possibly be.

They’re both hopeless, really.

Tom-san had told him long ago that he needed to find himself a cute girl who could cook. He’d scoffed, shrugged it off—why would he be so picky? But now, maybe he understands. If he’s the best cook between the both of them, they’re really, truly fucked.

“Hey, flea,” he calls, wandering back into the kitchen area and peeking over Izaya’s shoulder, “What is that?”

Izaya looks back at him, sultry eyes under long lashes, color on his cheeks from the heat building in the room and the effort of rushing so many burning pans to the sink before any pesky explosions might happen. He’s smirking as though he knows something that Shizuo doesn’t, but Shizuo sees through it easily. Sweat beads at his brow. His smile is lopsided, tight and rehearsed. He’s more stressed about this than he’s letting on.

Shizuo lets out a long sigh, runs a shaking hand through his hair. He grabs the box from the counter and looks through the instructions. It seems simple enough. It shouldn’t be so hard.

He allows Izaya to busy himself with whatever it is that he’s making on the stove. It’s a thick, tar-like substance that clings to the edges of the pan and bubbles ominously. He struggles to mask his disgust, if only so Izaya will leave him alone while he tries to figure this out.

People make this stuff all the time. It’s boxed, like boxed ramen, like TV dinners. He can do boxed meals. He can make anything with clearly outlined instructions.

He cracks his knuckles, tugging the corners of the box upward and dumping the contents on the counter. The powder mixes with eggs and milk. It’s stirred until there are no remaining lumps, poured into a pan and baked until finished. This should be a breeze.

He gathers everything that he needs from the fridge, mixes the ingredients, careful to use exact measurements, careful not to mess this up. It’s the last box, his last undamaged pan. This is going to work out. They’ve been cooking since before the sun came up, and now it’s almost noon.

The oven is preheated. Izaya is dumping his appalling mixture into the trash, clicking his tongue.

They stand together, hopeful and tired, sweaty and oh-so done as Shizuo slides the pan into the oven. Izaya coos excitedly, making some childish comment about Shizu-chan being a cute housewife that he pointedly ignores. He sets the timer, drags himself into the living room and plops down on the couch. Head tipped back, enjoying the breeze rolling in through the open windows, he barely registers the weight settling in next to him or the head leaning against his shoulder.

He grunts, eyes drooping closed. He’s relishing the warmth of Izaya huddled next to him more than he would like to admit. The smell of him, the feeling of his breath hot against his skin, those fingers drawing invisible lines along his chest.

He slips into sleep, sun against his cheeks, louse against his side. He dreams of cakes, of ice cream and chocolate candy. He dreams of Izaya beckoning him forward into a pile of sweets. He dreams of charcoal and forest fires. He dreams of thick clouds of smoke, strangling the oxygen from his lungs, and a high, piercing scream tearing through the serenity of his candy paradise until he finds himself jolting awake in a cold sweat, accidentally knocking Izaya onto the floor in his haste.

Bleary-eyed and confused, he realizes that the smell of smoke has transferred over from dreams to reality, and that scream—

Oh, that’s real too.

It’s the oven timer, blaring loudly from the kitchen. It’s his cake, inside, burned to a crisp.

He’s tearing from the living room into the kitchen, throwing open the oven door and barely remembering to put on oven mitts before grabbing for the pan.

But it’s too late, of course. The cake is practically charcoal. It’s nothing more than a piece of ash melted into the bottom of the pan.

Izaya is laughing before he even makes it into the kitchen. It begins as a giggle from the living room floor, small bubbles of laughter forcing their way through pursed lips as he pulls himself up and stumbles forward, but suddenly, he’s howling with it. It might be frightening, if Shizuo weren’t used to this sort of thing. If every unfortunate thing to ever happen to them weren’t accompanied by that infuriating laughter.

He’s cursing, tossing the final ruined pan in the sink. It sizzles, hot against the water, pathetic and ugly, a big black smear of failure right in the middle of his kitchen. Everything reeks of smoke. His counter tops are peppered with black soot, with dribbles of molten _something_ , with flour and cake mix, and so many things that he just knows are going to take hours to clean up.

Izaya’s laughter quiets down to nothing. He’s sniffing, rubbing the tears and the exhaustion from his eyes.

Shizuo turns to glower at him. He hopes his glare alone might turn Izaya to ash as well. All he wants to do is slink back into bed, to forget that any of this ever happened and wake up tomorrow ready for another workday.

“I’m not doing this shit anymore,” he barks, slamming the oven shut with such force that it rattles against the wall, “If you need a fucking cake so badly, we’re going to the store and buying one!”

Izaya flinches, straddling the threshold between living room and kitchen. He composes himself quickly enough, pulls a smirk onto his lips. He’s putting on a show, but Shizuo can see a glimmer of something in his eyes—a glassiness, and hopelessness, and it sends a dead weight right down to the deepest part of his gut.

For a long stretch of time, neither of them speak.

He looks to the mess in the sink, wrinkles his nose at the smell of burned batter. Izaya is fiddling with the edge of the wall, scuffing socked feet against the tile. And at last, he explains everything.

Shizuo feels like an ass, of course, just like he knew he would.

They get dressed. They lock the door behind them.

They find the nicest bakery in the district.

Late in the evening, as the sun sets behind the looming tops of the tallest skyscrapers, Mairu and Kururi are pulled from the task of picking through their presents by the sound of their doorbell ringing.

Untangling themselves and creeping out into the living room, Kururi makes a comment about burglars. Mairu tells her, “I’ll protect you with my life.”

And out in the hall, without a single soul around, there’s a box, tied up with a big blue bow.

No card, no note, only the cake inside, decorated with candy hearts and sugary flowers. Adorned with only:

_‘Happy Birthday’_

Kururi says it might be Egor, maybe even Shinra or Celty.

But they know, deep down, despite everything, they know.

And maybe the next day, they’ll venture to their brother’s lover’s house, take in the wreckage, and maybe they’ll even laugh.

And Shizuo will reassure himself for the hundredth time—

This has to be worth it somehow. He can’t be living in a constant state of annoyance for nothing.

He doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know why, but it definitely has nothing to do with Izaya.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, this is so late. I am so sorry!! I am not very good at cute things, and this story really kicked my ass! I really hope that you liked it though! Happy Birthday, you guys! Late... late...... late........ birthday.....


End file.
